Marxism For Dummies 2

Imagine, if you will, working the land. You knead it, tend it, love it. You belong. Its wants, its moods, its needs, you understand, for you arose from it. You sing its song. The Father-god sends fluids from the sky to fertilize the Mother, here below. You help her raise her young. Who need ask why? It's as it's always been. You simply know. However. There's a steam-forge in the glen, a brooding squatting thing, which reeks and groans. The fat man in the stove-pipe hat gives tokens to those who'll quit the land. Pity those men! Those rootless, soulless wraiths, diminished, broken, divorced from soil, machine-oil in their bones!